


Of Gods and Men

by giddytf2



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Angst, BDSM, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-12
Updated: 2014-02-12
Packaged: 2018-01-12 03:25:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1181318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/giddytf2/pseuds/giddytf2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>‘He’s on his knees, his wrists bound to the wooden headboard, his head bowed, his mouth stretched into a soundless scream by a red ball gag and oh, he <i>burns</i>.’</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Gods and Men

**Author's Note:**

> Ladies and gentlemen, here be the first commissioned story for my [Fanfiction Fundraiser](http://giddytf2.tumblr.com/post/76303040493/fanfiction-fundraiser-500-1000-words-for-us-10), courtesy of the wonderful [tastytexan](http://tastytexan.tumblr.com/)! And what a rare pairing it is, isn’t it? Certainly one I hadn’t considered before, but now…let’s just say I’m becoming a fan, haha.
> 
> The soundtrack I listened to while writing this was Gustavo Santaolalla’s [Iguazu](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PzlTvDD-7ws).

Engineer burns in a karakul-black cradle of leather straps. Moonlight sifts through the bedroom window and speckles his naked skin. He sees fireflies behind his eyelids and they zigzag through the maze of his thoughts and whisper of the Beast in the darkness behind him. He’s on his knees, his wrists bound to the wooden headboard, his head bowed, his mouth stretched into a soundless scream by a red ball gag and oh, he _burns_.

“Aye, you are weak. And I am _strong_.”

The blistering lash of the riding crop across his buttocks is a kiss from a god he now craves to worship. It should shame him, this unwarranted surrender of his independence, his dominance to another. But it doesn’t. It slides down his throat like the sweat that rolls off his forehead, nose and neck. It sheathes itself deep in his chest, his belly, like a knife carving through honeycomb laden with the nectar. Something else surges up into his mouth in its place. A silenced extolment that the Beast hears, nevertheless.

“Wot was that, BLU boy? Hmm? Ya need more _proof_ o’ that?”

Another kiss from god, and the fireflies scatter and then burst in unison into an inferno of light. He opens his eyes but he sees nothing. He groans his praise again, and again, it is rendered mute by the cursed gag in his mouth. It is his forbidden fruit from an unhallowed Eden, his gift. His test.

He passes it by remaining in his stance of veneration, even when the lashes rain down on his enflamed flesh. He can’t hear anything above the vicious thundering of his goddamn traitorous heart and his heaving breaths through his nose. Sweat trickles into his eyes and they burn as much as he does, crying out in lieu of his mouth with equally traitorous tears that drip onto the white bed sheets. His cock hardens even more. It hangs between his spread legs, swinging with each strike on his buttocks, seeping pearlescent life from its tip.

He should be ashamed. Be _enraged_. But he has forgotten how to be so, forgotten everything except the siege of hands and lips and teeth of the Beast upon his yielding body. His Beast. His god, his fallen angel, his _all_.

He is free.

“You should see yerself.”

He is on his back. His hands and arms have been untied and they tingle with tiny shocks of electricity. He fists his hands in the air, but they tremor as his stinging, wide eyes stare up at the deity looming above him.

He is unworthy of the expanse of perfect, ebony skin adorned in sheerness and intricate lace. He aches to grab at the red panties and thigh-high stockings and rip them apart in the newfound, ongoing razing of all he’d been, all he’d believed himself to be. He’d been such a proud fool to think that the lace, the fragility, the _femininity_ could lessen the omnipotence of one who knows him better than he knows himself. And he is small, so small in the shadow of such brawn and temper, in the blinding glint of that one fiery eye gazing down upon him.

His jaws pop when the ball gag is removed. He sucks in a harsh breath. His dry lips part, and for a moment, an eternity, he is unable to speak. He is unafraid. His god is adoring and patient. He can still feel the heat of that love resonating in the reddened skin of his buttocks and the back of his thighs.

He gasps. Then, he rasps one word. A name.

The blaze in his blue eyes, his branded heart leaps into his god’s, and his entire world goes up in flames.

He is consumed. Lost to the resumed siege upon his arching, sweat-streaked body. He weaves trembling fingers into short, curly hair. It’s soft and thick and gives in to his grip and he tugs too hard. He’s being kissed on his mouth and chin and he’s being bitten and licked on and down his bared neck and, oh fuck, he can’t stand the nibbling and sucking of his nipples, it feels so damn _good_ and _oh fuck_ , those long, callused fingers are inside him and opening him up and rubbing him right _there_ , following his every jolt, every shudder and curl of his toes, conjuring a river of moans and panting from him.

“You should _see_ yerself, _bloody hell_ –“

It hurts but he’s waited long enough, waited _forever_ to be split open and remade into something new, something functional and whole. He’s filled to the hilt in one push. He hears a lion’s roar above him, hears his own howl, and he wants to drown himself in its entwined majesty. He isn’t given time to adjust. He crushes his knees around powerful, snapping hips that are speeding up. His precious breath is robbed from him by demanding, full, whisky-tinted lips. He tightens around the divine flesh skewering him, and when he gazes up into that all-seeing, golden eye gazing back at him, he sees the fires of heaven.

He sees reverence.

“I am weak … And you are strong. _So_ strong,” flows the murmured, hoarse praise into his ear. He shuts his eyes. The fireflies are gone. He ignites with every unerring thrust against his prostate. He is incinerating, dying. He is conquered.

He falls, and his wingless angel falls with him.

He reawakens to the scent and weight of a replete creature draped over his torso, to the blurred vision of torn, red panties near his head. A large hand strokes his damp cheek.

“Dell?”

He blinks. Something raw and wet bleeds from his eyes.

“Fuck. Fuckin’ Scot bastard,” he snarls, but his face is rent asunder by the broadest grin. Something in his chest erupts at Demoman guffawing and pressing their foreheads together.

“I _burn_ for you.”

He basks in the warmth of his mortal lover’s sighed vow. He has no need for gods and angels and devils. Not anymore.

 

**Fin**


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